A month within the walls of Riverrun had passed, a strange interlude of peace amidst the drumbeat of war. With my men integrated into the larger rebel host and their command handed to Lord Arryn's capable stewards, I found myself with an unfamiliar commodity: free time. I used it to walk among the soldiers, sharing a jest or a story to bolster morale, but the heart of the war was now plotted in stone halls, not muddy camps.
Seeking solitude, I took my lute and climbed to the castle's battlements. The view was a panorama of purpose—the ordered chaos of the camp, the glint of spears in the sun, the Tully banner snapping in the wind above me. I lost myself in a quiet melody, the strings a counterpoint to the distant sounds of an army preparing.
I was so absorbed I did not hear his approach. When I looked up, Lord Eddard Stark was standing a few paces away, his expression unreadable.
I stopped playing at once. "My lord. Forgive me, I did not hear you."
"You did not disturb me, Ser Julius," he said, his voice quiet. "If my presence is an intrusion, I will leave."
"Not at all, Lord Stark. This is your betrothed's home. The intrusion is mine." I hesitated, then added, "I have not had the chance to offer my condolences for your father and brother. The realm is poorer for their loss."
A shadow of profound grief crossed his face before his stoic mask resettled. "Thank you, Ser. Your words are… kind."
An awkward silence fell between us. He was a man of the deep North, I a knight from nowhere; we had little common ground but the war.
"Tell me truly, Ser Julius," he asked, his gaze fixed on the distant tents. "Can we win this?"
It was the question every man present was asking himself in the dark of night. "I do not know, my lord," I answered honestly. "But we must believe we can. To do otherwise is to already be defeated. Your father gave you wise counsel: to win the fights you pick. We have picked this one. Now we must see it through."
He gave a grim, almost imperceptible nod. "The numbers are against us. And we do not know where the Lannisters' swords will fall."
"Numbers are not everything," I countered. "We have the high ground of righteousness, seasoned commanders, and soldiers who believe in their cause. The men I brought have been blooded. The Valemen are disciplined. The Northmen are tough as ironwood. And the Riverlords fight for their homes. That counts for more than you know."
Before he could reply, a man I recognized as Lord Howland Reed emerged onto the battlement, his face urgent. "My lord," he said to Ned, "a raven from the Stony Sept. Lord Baratheon is trapped there. Connington and the royal army are closing in. Lord Arryn has called a council."
Ned's demeanor shifted instantly from pensive lord to battlefield commander. "We must not keep him waiting. Ser Julius, your counsel may be needed."
The Great Hall was tense. Lord Arryn, his face lined with worry, outlined the crisis. Robert was cornered. Jon Connington, the new Hand of the King, was bearing down on the Stony Sept with a royal host.
"We must march at once!" declared a Riverlord.
"And leave Riverrun undefended?" countered another. "What if Tywin Lannister marches?"
The debate raged until Lord Arryn's eyes found me. "Ser Julius. You have a knack for being where you are most needed. What is your assessment?"
All eyes turned to me. I stood, choosing my words with care. "If we march with our entire host, we sacrifice our strategic position and may still arrive too late. But Connington's force is no more than twenty thousand. Speed and surprise can defeat numbers."
I walked to the large map table. "We take only our cavalry—fifteen thousand horse. We ride hard for the Stony Sept. The Valemen, the Riverlords, the Northmen—all our best riders. We hit Connington like a hammer while he's focused on the anvil of the town."
I looked at Lord Hoster Tully. "The infantry remains here to hold Riverrun and watch the West. It is a risk, but a calculated one."
Lord Arryn nodded slowly, then more firmly. "It is our best chance. We ride at first light."
The following hours were a whirlwind of preparation. As I checked my gear, I went to see Stormwind in the stables. The great white stallion nudged my hand, then let out a soft, weary snort.
"I know, old friend," I murmured, stroking his neck. "The easy days are over. But this is the one that matters."
He shook his mane, as if in resignation. We understood each other. As we rode out at dawn, the thunder of fifteen thousand hooves was a promise and a threat. We were riding to save a king, to fight a battle that would be remembered. They would call it the Battle of the Bells. And we would be the storm that answered their call.